I missed my train and went into full panic—here’s what I did to survive in next 90 minutes

It started with a delay. Or maybe with a moment of disbelief that such a thing could even happen to me—me, who plans everything like clockwork and arrives ten minutes early just in case the universe decides to play tricks.

But the universe did play tricks that evening. And I missed my train to Mainz.

I had just wrapped up a writing retreat at the lab I recently joined in Dresden — my first real immersion with the research team. There was a soft satisfaction in my chest from the day, the kind that makes you feel tethered, if only briefly.

I was supposed to attend a resilience conference next — ironic, now that I think about it.

In the days leading up to it, I had thought about what I might learn there: new frameworks, research findings, maybe a few well-worded slides on emotion regulation. What I hadn’t expected was to be tested on my own resilience hours before I even arrived.

The moment I realized the train had left without me, my body went into panic. Not the kind of panic that makes you scream or cry. This was quieter, deeper — a tightness in my chest, a cold sweat on my back, the sharp sting of helplessness.

No one around me spoke English. The next train wouldn’t get me there in time.

I felt like a dropped pin on a map no one was looking at.

A stranger who didn’t speak my language, but spoke my moment

After an hour of sitting desperate on the stairs and crying, I realized I had to quit being in the "freeze" mode and start "fighting", moving.

Not because I felt ready, but because I didn’t have a choice.

There was no one coming to save me. My body was cold, my cheeks flushed from sobbing, and I kept thinking how bizarre it was that this was happening in the middle of Germany on a weekday evening.

I picked myself up, dragged my bag toward the platform again, and checked the board for any connection that could still take me to Leipzig. There weren’t many. I had missed the reliable rhythm of regional trains and now had to rely on chance. That’s when I saw it—a slower train, but it was heading in the right direction.

I didn’t even check the stops properly. I just climbed on.

I got on the next available train to Leipzig, still unsure if I was even on the right route. The wagon was full, not with people exactly, but with their comfort. Bags took up more seats than bodies. I stood with my heavy luggage, feeling invisible.

That’s when an older man turned toward me.

He pointed to a seat beside him, where a large suitcase was sprawled out. Then he turned and said something sharply to the couple sitting next to him. They looked up—startled, maybe reluctant—and moved their luggage. It took me a second to realize what had happened. He had asked them to clear the seat for me.

And then it hit me: they were an Indian couple. And this German man, with all his kindness, had defaulted to a kind of racial entitlement that made me wince.

I was grateful, yes. But also embarrassed.

Grateful that someone noticed me. Embarrassed that someone else had to be displaced to make room for me. And maybe also vaguely ashamed at how often these micro-hierarchies play out.

Germans can be surprisingly kind — and surprisingly racist, too. It's like it runs in their veins sometimes, quietly and almost politely.

Still, I sat down. I had to.

He lifted my bag and placed it above, like it was nothing. We didn’t share a language. Not really. But we spoke in nods, in small smiles, in the shared awareness that I was very lost, and he was willing to be found for me.

When the train slowed down before the next transfer, he looked at me and pointed again, this time toward the doors. I understood. It was time to get off.

I don’t know why his help made me feel so much — maybe because I hadn’t expected it, maybe because it reminded me how rare it is to be noticed when you're silently falling apart.

Running, literally, to keep going

I made it to Leipzig just in time for my next transfer—three minutes to change platforms.

Three minutes isn’t enough to think. It's barely enough to breathe.

I ran. I ran so far away (Cue the Flock of Seagulls song.)

I don't even know how I made it. My bag knocked into strangers. My heart outran my body.

The train doors closed just seconds after I boarded. I didn’t sit down immediately. I couldn’t. I stood there panting, not sure whether I was relieved or just confused by the fact that I had somehow kept going.

But the journey wasn’t cheap. I had a Deutschland ticket, thinking it would be enough.

It wasn’t. A last-minute route change meant I had to buy a new train ticket—a hundred euros gone in seconds. And a BahnCard. All because I missed one train.

Back then—before everything changed—I never had to think about these things. He did.

He always planned the routes, checked the schedules, figured out the fastest way. I was the one who showed up with my bag and a kind of soft trust that everything would be fine.

It always was. He made it that way.

And now?

It’s gone. I’m the one scanning connections alone, trying not to break down between platforms.

Personal growth, I guess.

And still, my nervous system still knows that in times of desperation, he's the one who's here.

So, I texted him in panic and desperation and of course, he helped. I knew he would

He found me the right ticket. Explained what to do. Even now, even though we’re miles apart, both physically and emotionally. He didn’t have to care. But he did. And somehow, that mattered more than I expected it to.

Strangely, the next few trains—especially from Frankfurt to Mainz—felt too smooth.

The seats were so spacious, I started to wonder if I had wandered into first class without realizing.

No one questioned me. Maybe the universe took pity. Or maybe I was just too exhausted to care.

And then, at some random stop, I ate a tub of cottage cheese I’d forgotten I brought. It was, I swear, the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. Maybe because it reminded me of those plain slices of rye bread I ate in Paris with him after another similarly dramatic, borderline-tragic evening.

Hunger does that to memory — it makes everything feel sacred.

Somehow, that’s what stung the most. Not just the money, but the way small things add up to a feeling of defeat.

I could have flown for less. I could have saved myself the anxiety. But I didn’t. Because part of me believed I could still make it. And because someone, somewhere, helped me get those tickets when I couldn’t think straight. Someone who had no reason to. Not anymore.

The surreal silence of arriving late

The final transfer was from Frankfurt to Mainz.

By then, it was almost 2 am.

I stepped out into the streets so quiet they didn’t feel real. The city looked paused, like a film set after everyone had gone home. I walked 20 minutes through empty sidewalks, under light rain, the kind that doesn’t soak you but slowly makes you cold.

There were no footsteps except my own. No cars. No voices.

I think I could have cried then, but not out of sadness. Out of something closer to awe.

There was something about that silence that made the whole day make sense. Sometimes we survive not because we feel strong, but because we keep choosing to move.

The key was hidden, like everything else that night

When I arrived at the Airbnb, the host had promised a smooth check-in: "The key will be hidden outside for you."

I found the spot easily, but not the key. It was disguised, painted in a color nearly invisible in the dark. I stood there, wet, exhausted, scraping my fingers against surfaces, wondering if the universe, God, or whatever the higher power exists (if it does) was laughing.

Eventually, I found it. But the room wasn’t what I expected. It was filled with old paintings, marionettes, stuffed animals.

Not the cozy kind—the kind that watches you.

I almost laughed. I think I even did — it felt like the final test.

And yet, I stayed.

I made it to the conference the next morning. A little sleep-deprived, maybe. But something in me had shifted. I had survived the kind of travel day that strips you bare, that reveals how much you rely on control and how little you have of it.

Resilience, I realized, isn’t just what you learn in conferences. It’s what you earn in the quiet, messy, surreal spaces in between.

Sometimes, it looks like standing in a dark street with a rain-drenched bag and no idea where the key is.

Sometimes, it looks like the kindness of a stranger who doesn’t speak your language but speaks your moment.

Sometimes, it looks like remembering that someone still cared enough to help, even when they didn’t have to.

And sometimes, it just looks like getting through the next 90 minutes.

Because here’s the truth no one likes to admit:

The people you expect to ask how you are — often don’t. Not out of malice. Just because they’re living their own lives, carrying their own silences. And that’s okay.

Sometimes, no one is there when it matters most. Not the person from your past, not the one from your present. Just you. With your heartbeat, your breath, your bag too heavy for your shoulders.

And that’s when resilience isn’t a concept or a conference topic. It’s the hand you reach for when there’s no other hand to hold.

Your own.